David Lefkowitz has spent the better part of three decades on nearly every side of the live music business — as a manager for Primus and other acts, a talent buyer for AEG in San Francisco, a venue GM in Pennsylvania, and now as the West Coast talent buyer for Blue Note Entertainment Group. Since relocating back to the Bay Area in 2022, Lefkowitz has quietly built out one of the region's more ambitious independent-promoter footprints, stitching together a growing roster of non-owned rooms: the Calvin Simmons Theatre in Oakland, the Quarry at UC Santa Cruz, the historic Catalyst, and the brand-new Siesta Valley Bowl in Orinda — alongside Blue Note's flagship outdoor series in Napa. In this conversation, Lefkowitz walks through how Blue Note's licensing model actually works, what it took to land each of his new Bay Area venues, why going independent means losing the industry's most valuable booking data, and why he never went back to artist management.

The U.S. Open likes to sell itself as tennis's most democratic major — take the 7 train to Flushing Meadows, grab a $65 grounds pass, spend the day a few feet from the world's best players. That pitch is getting harder to make. This year, entry-level grounds passes have been showing up on the resale market for well north of $300, and the tournament's own executives, elected officials, and even a hedge fund billionaire have all weighed in on how a nonprofit governing body ended up presiding over a scalper's market.

This week Dave and Mike breakdown the WSJ’s story on how Trump intervened on behalf of Live Nation to settle its lawsuit with the DOJ.

California lawmakers pushed AB 1349 across the finish line in the closing minutes of Monday night's legislative session, sending the state's most consequential ticketing reform bill in years to Governor Gavin Newsom — over the objections of the very group that built it.

A Las Vegas jury took less than three hours on Monday to convict Duane "Keffe D" Davis of first-degree murder in the 1996 killing of Tupac Shakur — closing, at least for now, one of hip-hop's longest-running unsolved cases and the first conviction ever secured in the rapper's death.

Davis, 63, a former shot-caller for the South Side Compton Crips, wasn't accused of pulling the trigger. Prosecutors argued instead that he organized the drive-by as retaliation after Shakur's entourage — including Death Row Records co-founder Suge Knight — beat up Davis' nephew hours earlier at the MGM Grand, and that he supplied the gun used to kill Shakur as their car idled at a red light on the Las Vegas Strip on September 7, 1996. Under Nevada law, that's enough for a murder conviction even without pulling the trigger himself.

What makes the conviction remarkable is where it came from: Davis' own mouth. For years after the shooting, no one was charged. That changed only after Davis began talking publicly — in interviews, in a 2019 memoir titled Compton Street Legend, and eventually to police — describing his own presence in the Cadillac and his role handing the murder weapon to whoever was in the back seat. Prosecutors leaned hard on that self-incrimination in closing arguments, telling jurors that while the details of Davis' account shifted over the years, one thing never moved: he always put himself in the car.

The defense argued the opposite read — that Davis fabricated and embellished his story for profit, first to avoid prosecution on unrelated narcotics charges and later to sell books and interviews. Defense attorney Michael Sanft leaned on missing 1990s-era investigative records and the total absence of physical evidence tying Davis to the scene. It wasn't enough. The jury also heard from a gang expert who framed Davis as the authority younger Crips members had to answer to, reinforcing the state's theory that the killing was ordered, not improvised.

Judge Carli Kierny ordered Davis held without bail. He's scheduled to be sentenced October 13 and faces up to life in prison without parole. Before he was led out of the courtroom, Davis raised his hand to tell the judge he intends to appeal — and asked for his phone and laptop back.

For anyone who covers the business side of music, this case has always been about more than a cold-case thriller. It's a direct artifact of the Death Row/Bad Boy rivalry that shaped — and nearly destroyed — the business model of 1990s hip-hop, when label loyalty doubled as gang affiliation and marketing was inseparable from real violence. Suge Knight, who survived the same shooting, built and lost a label empire partly on that mythology. Thirty years on, the conviction doesn't just answer a murder case; it's a rare moment where the industry's most mythologized era gets a verifiable, courtroom-tested account instead of competing legends, memoirs, and podcasts.

Sentencing is October 13.